Timothy Files

by Lawrence Sanders

  “What else?” Cone says.

  “Look, I’m going to talk fast because I don’t have too much time. Let me give you a rundown on what I do. Now, how many art galleries and antique shops do you figure there are in New York?”

  “A couple of hundred?” Cone guesses.

  “How does sixteen hundred grab you? And that’s only in Manhattan. And there’s only me and a couple of part-timers I can call in to cover them all. Don’t get me wrong; most of those sixteen hundred places are on the up-and-up. But there’s a lot of fencing going on, some contract burglaries, and a lot of gonnifs in the business who wouldn’t blink an eye if a Bowery bum showed up with a couple of antique miniatures painted on ivory and claimed he found them in a garbage can. You follow?”

  “I follow,” Cone says.

  “Well, these places are licensed, but we can’t cover them all. Occasionally the Consumer Fraud Department gets a complaint that a ‘genuine Louis XIV chair’ was actually made in Grand Rapids. Generally, the complaint ends up on my desk and I have to check it out. Dull stuff. But most of my job—the fun part—involves big-money thefts of art and antiques. We get alerts from Interpol and from a special outfit that sends out regular bulletins on art work swiped from museums and private collectors.”

  “How much of that stuff is there?” Cone wants to know.

  “Art thefts worldwide? Last year about five thousand were reported.”

  Cone whistles softly. “Let me get us a refill,” he says. He goes to the bar, comes back with another round, slides into the booth again.

  “Thanks,” the sergeant says. “If I ask for a third, turn me down.”

  “The hell I will,” Cone says. “This is my third. Listen, you said there were five thousand reported art thefts last year. You mean some are unreported?”

  “Sure,” MacEver says cheerfully. “I’d guess at least double that number. For every one reported, the cops never hear about two others. Because the private collector who got ripped off bought his painting or silver chalice or whatever from a crook who stole it in the first place. So he can’t go screaming to the cops, d’ya see. We’d want to know who he bought it from, how much he paid, does he have the proper documentation. The best part is this: The crook who lifted the work of art from the private collector is probably the same villain who sold it to him. There are supposed to be guys in the business who make a good living stealing and selling the same work of art over and over again.”

  “That’s beautiful,” Cone says.

  “Isn’t it? Can I have one of your cigarettes?”

  “Sure. Help yourself.”

  “I’m trying to quit smoking by not buying cigarettes. Now I find myself bumming them from other people. I’m going to die a mooch with lung cancer.”

  MacEver lights his Camel with a gold Dunhill, inhales deeply. The smoke doesn’t seem to come out mouth or nose. It just disappears. He takes another sip of his martini. “Alcohol and nicotine,” he muses. “Why don’t I just slit my wrists and be done with it.”

  “Too fast,” Cone says. “We’ve all got to suffer first.”

  “Yeah,” the sergeant says. “Well, let’s get back to art thefts. There’s something else you should know about them: They run in cycles. One year it will be French Impressionist paintings. The next year it will be pre-Columbian statuettes. Even thievery has its trends—usually following what’s bringing high prices at the big auction houses. That’s where the Laboris Gallery comes in.”

  “That I don’t follow,” Cone says.

  “Well, for the past year or so, the really ‘in’ fashion in stolen art has been stuff from the Near East. You know what things are like over there: bombings and raids and everybody shooting at everyone else. In the process, a lot of museums and private collections have been looted. So there’s plenty of Islamic and pre-Islamic art work up for grabs, and it’s dollars-to-doughnuts that most of it will end up in New York.”

  “Now I follow,” Cone says. “But how are they getting the stuff into the country?”

  “Good question. The Customs guys do what they can, but they’re as understaffed and overworked as we are. Suppose a shipment often thousand wax bananas comes in from Columbia. You think every banana can be checked? No way. So Customs spot-checks and finds only wax bananas. But five hundred could be filled with pure cocaine. Who’s to tell? Now, to get back to art thefts from the Near East, you think a pirate is going to airmail his loot directly from Beirut to New York? Fat chance! That valuable work of art is going to be transshipped and travel halfway around the world before it gets into this country, maybe from Mexico or Canada. We had a case about six months ago: a sword with a silver hilt set with diamonds and rubies. A real beauty. It was swiped in Lebanon, went to Turkey, to India, to Korea, to Taiwan, to Venezuela, to Cuba, to Miami, and eventually ended up in Manhattan as part of a shipment of office furniture. And the guy who engineered all this lives in Switzerland. How do you like that?”

  “Did you nab him?” Cone asks.

  “Couldn’t touch him. But we recovered the sword. We’re holding it until the rightful owner can be determined—which will probably never happen. Anyway, right now the art scene in New York is being flooded with booty from Iran, Lebanon, Iraq, and Turkey.”

  “Where do you start on something like that?”

  “Since I’m such a cynical bastard, with the apparently legitimate art galleries and dealers who handle Islamic stuff. Some of them sell to the public, some only to private collectors. I’ve got a list of about fifteen possibles. The Laboris Gallery is one of them.”

  “Oh-ho,” Cone says.

  “Yeah, oh-ho. But I’ve checked them out and they seem to be clean. You don’t think so?”

  Cone takes a swig of his vodka. “Don’t know. All I can say is that they’re occupying a prime piece of Manhattan real estate and aren’t exactly thronged with customers. And the owner, a deep lady named Erica Laboris, made a point of telling me how honest she is. I’m itchy about that place.”

  Terry MacEver sighs and finishes his martini. “See what you can come up with,” he says. “Anything, and I do mean anything, will be gratefully appreciated.” He fishes in his inside jacket pocket, pulls out a pigskin wallet, extracts a card, and hands it across the table to Cone. “There’s my number. If I’m not in, you can leave a message and I’ll get back to you. Right now this whole business of smuggled Near East art is driving me right up the wall. Listen, I’ve got to run. Thanks for the refreshment.”

  They shake hands, and then Sergeant MacEver is gone. Cone carries the empty glasses and his parka over to the bar and orders another Finlandia. His third or fourth? He can’t remember—and who the hell cares?

  He sips his fresh drink slowly, smoking another Camel and reviewing all the stuff MacEver told him. Good background, he decides, but what has it got to do with Laboris Investments on Wall Street? Is Ingmar paying that 30 percent from the proceeds of smuggled Levantine art? Ridiculous. Who ever heard of a thief needing financing and going public? It would be like the Mafia selling shares.

  Because MacEver was so ready to meet with him, Cone figures the sergeant is holding out. He knows something, or suspects something, about the Laboris Gallery he’s not mentioning. That’s okay; Cone said nothing to him about Laboris Importers on Nineteenth Street.

  He looks into his empty glass of vodka and reflects that everyone wants the glory of the collar. It’s understandable; it comes with the territory. But cops—locals, state, Feds, or whatever—have to think about their records and their careers. All Cone has to think about is his own satisfaction.

  “Another, sir?” the bartender asks.

  “Splendid idea,” the Wall Street dick says, wondering if he’ll get home alive.

  It’s a honey of a hangover. Nausea, dry heaves, headache, tremors, a parched throat, a cold sweat, gummy eyes, cramping of the bowels, self-disgust—the whole bit. Cleo looks at him sorrowfully.

  “Don’t you start,” he tells the cat.

  He drin
ks a quart of cold water, two cups of black coffee, pops four aspirin, takes a hot shower, starts a cigarette, and puts it out. He inhales twelve deep breaths, striding up and down the loft, tries to drink a cold beer and puts it back in the fridge. He belches, frequently, and Cleo retreats under the bathtub.

  He’s getting it together, pulling on his white wool socks with trembling hands, when his phone rings.

  “The boss,” he says to Cleo.

  “Where the hell are you?” Samantha Whatley demands angrily.

  “On my way,” he says. “I overslept.”

  “Horseshit,” she says. “I can smell your breath over the phone. Come to my office as soon as you get in. I’ve got something to show you.”

  “I’ve seen it,” he says.

  “Very funny. Just be here.”

  He walks to work as usual, figuring the fresh air will perk him up. But it isn’t fresh; it’s thick and smells of snow and sewer gas. He plods along, all scrunched up in his parka, heavy work shoes slapping the pavement, and wonders why he smokes too much, drinks too much, and generally plays the fool. He can solve other people’s mysteries, but he can’t solve his own.

  “Screw it,” he says aloud, and passersby glance at him nervously.

  He lumps into Samantha’s office, still wearing his cruddy cap and parka. She stares at him.

  “Jesus!” she says. “You didn’t shave, did you? Afraid you’d slit your throat? You look like the wrath of God.”

  “I am the wrath of God.”

  “Did you remember to feed Cleo?”

  “Yes, I remembered to feed Cleo. Is that what you wanted to see me about?”

  “Sit down,” she says, “before you fall over.”

  He slumps gratefully into the armchair alongside her desk.

  She looks at him a long, sad moment. “You’re killing yourself,” she says.

  “Tell me about it,” he says bitterly. “Come on, lectures I don’t need. What’s up?”

  “You know that Buddha you gave me? I broke it.”

  He straightens in his chair. “You broke it? How? With a sledgehammer? That was one solid piece of teak.”

  “The hell it was,” Sam says. “I didn’t exactly break it, but take a look at this.”

  She reaches into the well of her desk, pulls out a Macy’s shopping bag, and plucks out the Buddha.

  “Looks okay to me,” he says.

  “Yeah?”

  With a hard twist of her wrists, she separates the Buddha into two parts, base and figure. She displays the sections.

  “Son of a bitch,” Cone says wonderingly. “The momser who sold it to me swore it was one solid piece of wood.”

  “That’s not all,” Samantha says. “It unscrews the wrong way—clockwise. And then there’s this …”

  She holds up the butt of the separated Buddha. There’s a hole drilled into the figure, about an inch in diameter and three inches deep.

  “What the hell,” Cone says. “Now why did they do that? To lessen the weight for shipment? Nah, that doesn’t make sense. Listen, how did you find out it comes apart?”

  “This morning I reached to shut off my Snooz-alarm and knocked him onto the floor. When I picked him up, I noticed the base was loose. I couldn’t figure out how the two parts were connected until I tried twisting it the wrong way.”

  “It’s interesting,” Cone says. “Let me take it.”

  “I want it back,” Samantha says sternly. “It’s Izzy, and I love him.”

  “Cut the shit,” Cone says roughly. “Give me the goddamned thing. I’ll let you know what I find out.”

  “In a pig’s ass,” Whatley says, but she lets him take the Buddha dumped into the Macy’s shopping bag.

  He goes back to his office, takes off his cap and parka, and lets them fall to the floor, because some office bandit stole his coat tree. Then he sits down to examine the Buddha. He screws the two parts together tightly, turning them counterclockwise. When they’re snug, he leans forward to examine the joint. You’d never notice if you weren’t looking for it. Nice workmanship. The little label MADE IN BURMA is still stuck to the base.

  He puts the Buddha under his desk and shambles down the corridor to the legal department. He’s passing Apicella’s office when the CPA calls, “Hey, Tim, got a minute?”

  Cone pauses.

  “Listen,” Apicella says. “I got cables from three of my overseas contacts. None of them ever heard of this Ingmar Laboris. If he’s trading in foreign currencies, he’s got to be doing it through fronts. I don’t like it.”

  “I don’t either,” Cone says. “Take my advice, Sid, and hold off on your PIE until I can get more skinny on this guy.”

  “Keep me informed,” Apicella says anxiously.

  “Oh, sure,” Cone says, and continues on to Louis Kiernan’s office.

  “Hey,” Cone says, “we got like an atlas or an encyclopedia around this joint?”

  The young paralegal peers at him over his reading glasses. “No big encyclopedia,” he says. “I’ve been trying to get a set of the Britannica, but Mr. Haldering won’t okay the cost. But he did spring for a one-volume job. It’s that thick book in the white cover on the top shelf.”

  Cone takes down the heavy volume and flips through it. He reads the paragraph on Burma. Chief products: teak, rubies, sapphires, and jade. He closes the book, replaces it on the shelf, starts out of the office.

  “Find what you were looking for?” Kiernan asks.

  “Who the hell knows?” Cone says.

  Back in his own office, he separates the Buddha again and peers at the hole drilled into the base of the figure. It’s a nice, smooth job. He can’t see the residue of anything. He sniffs at it, but all he can smell is oiled wood. He puts the figurine aside, digs out his wallet, and calls Terry MacEver.

  The sergeant is on another phone, so Cone leaves a message and waits patiently. Meanwhile he turns the Buddha over and over in his hands, shaking it once or twice. Nothing rattles. But closer inspection does reveal a lot number burned lightly into the bottom of the base—30818-K. Whatever that means.

  True to his word, MacEver calls back.

  “You got something for me?”

  “More questions,” the Wall Street dick says. “Yesterday, when you were talking about smuggled Levantine art, I didn’t ask what the stuff was. Paintings? Sculpture?”

  “A lot of things,” MacEver says. “Miniatures. Manuscripts. Figurines. Illuminations. Weapons. Could be almost anything.”

  “Listen,” Cone says, “could any of that fit in a container about an inch across and three inches long?”

  “Very little of it. Maybe coins, a gold chain, a rolled-up page from a book. But we’re talking about drinking cups and statuettes and old weapons.”

  “Yeah,” Cone says. “Thanks for your time. I’ll keep in touch.”

  “You do that,” MacEver says.

  After he hangs up, Cone realizes he is ravenous, having drunk his dinner the night before. He pulls on parka and cap, takes the Buddha along in the shopping bag, and leaves the office. He heads for a sloppy Irish pub on Broadway where he stuffs himself with Dublin broil, hashed browns, overcooked string beans, a lousy salad, four slices of soda bread, and two bottles of Harp.

  Feeling a lot better, his violent eructations reduced to gentle burps, he takes a cab up to West Nineteenth Street to pay another visit to Laboris Importers.

  The huge brass Buddha is still in the show window, a king-sized version of the teak job Cone is carrying in his shopping bag. While staring in the window, he spots something he hadn’t noticed before: a small sign propped on a bamboo easel, LABORIS IMPORTERS, INC. THE DIFFERENT AND THE BEAUTIFUL FROM ALL OVER THE WORLD. STORES IN NEW YORK, BOSTON, BALTIMORE, WASHINGTON, ATLANTA, MIAMI, NEW ORLEANS, DETROIT, CHICAGO, ST. LOUIS, DENVER, LOS ANGELES, SAN FRANCISCO.

  Cone is impressed. He hadn’t realized this House of Schlock was a nationwide chain. He has a sudden vision of an army of grinning teak Buddhas, arms raised in triumph, taking o
ver the country.

  The store has plenty of customers prowling the aisles. Cone goes directly to the table where his Buddha had been displayed. It’s laden with a phalanx of little stuffed rabbits from Taiwan. When you wind them up, they twirl and bang tiny cymbals affixed to their paws.

  He marches to the sales counter at the back. There’s a flock of clerks twittering away to each other. They all look like Laborises: swarthy skin, flashing eyes, teeth like sugar cubes. He can even smell that rose-scented cologne.

  He holds up a hand, and a little lady comes scampering over.

  “May I be of service, sir?” she asks with the familiar hiss.

  “I’ll bet you’re a Laboris,” he says.

  “Oh, yes,” she says, giggling. “I am Karen Laboris. We have met?”

  “No, but I know some of your cousins.” He fishes into his shopping bag, hauls out the Buddha. “Listen, I bought this a few days ago.”

  “And it’s damaged? Your money will be cheerfully refunded, sir. No trouble at all.”

  “No, no,” he says hastily. “Nothing like that. It’s just that I like it so much—and my wife does, too—that we’d like to buy another one. But I can’t seem to find any on display.”

  “Ahh,” she says, “that was a very popular item. Hand-carved. One solid piece of teak. So enchanting, don’t you think? I am afraid we are out of stock.”

  “Oh, no,” he says. “I promised I’d get one for my mother-in-law, who is in a nursing home, wasting away. Don’t you have a single one left?”

  She frowns. “Let me look in the stockroom, sir. It’s possible there may be one on a back shelf.”

  “Thank you,” he says. “I’d appreciate that.”

  While she’s gone, he takes a look around. There’s a lot of new stuff that wasn’t displayed on his first visit: suits of armor from Spain, Korean chests with brass hardware, enormous marionettes from India, leather hassocks from Turkey, quilts from Iowa, Portuguese wine flasks, and cuckoo clocks from Switzerland.

  Cone is examining a Brazilian armoire when Karen Laboris comes trotting up to him, carrying a teak Buddha.

  “I found one!” she announces happily. “The last in the store. You are in luck.”